


Jack Bristow at the Edge of Reason

by Yahtzee



Category: Alias, Bridget Jones' Diary
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-20
Updated: 2009-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-04 19:05:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/33132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yahtzee/pseuds/Yahtzee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sifting through in-box of manuscripts reveals failed chick-lit efforts, sword-and-sorcery bollocks and book with "Rambaldi" on cover. Item received last week from strange messenger, hung about quoting poetry as if hoping for a tip, not likely. Leaf-through reveals bad sketches, worse poetry, altogether sad "Griffin and Sabine" knock-off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jack Bristow at the Edge of Reason

**Author's Note:**

  * For [superswank](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=superswank).



_Mar. 28, 137 pounds (shameful), alcohol units = 2  
glasses wine (v. good), cigarettes = 0 (excellent)_

**10:11 a.m. **

Awakened from lovely dream of Colin Firth to discover  
self already one hour late for work. Why all sensual  
dreams of movie stars experienced only between snooze  
alarms, whilst weekend naps with time to savor only  
inspire boring dreams of flossing in strange bathrooms  
and the like? Black skirt perfect for day's conference  
found beneath sofa cushion, stained with daiquiri,  
unsalvageable. Located red dress, slightly too tight  
at current weight, attempted to convince self that men  
love curves, large graspable parts, even if lad mags  
only feature portraits of anorexic tarts. Am defying  
cultural aesthetic, reaffirming image of woman  
bountiful. Also will look better if wear spandex  
support garment. Ooof.

At work, neither dress nor lateness commented upon.  
First grateful, then angry. Am I invisible around  
here? Hmmph.

**1:45 p.m. **

Take-out fish and chips for lunch. Fish rich with  
vital proteins, health-giving oils, so acceptable use  
of fried food. V. strange e-mail waiting in box upon  
return. Text as given:

_OUR FIRM IS INTERESTED IN ACQUIRING THE RAMBALDI  
MANUSCRIPT, ON THE CONDITION OF STRICT  
CONFIDENTIALITY. PRICE NEGOTIABLE. REPLY 2100 HOURS._

Sifting through in-box of manuscripts reveals failed  
chick-lit efforts, sword-and-sorcery bollocks and book  
with "Rambaldi" on cover. Item received last week from  
strange messenger, hung about quoting poetry as if  
hoping for a tip, not likely. Leaf-through reveals bad  
sketches, worse poetry, altogether sad "Griffin and  
Sabine" knock-off. Perhaps will sell this for tidy  
sum, prove self go-getter, knowledgeable, ahead of the  
game? Spend afternoon imagining self in Donna Karan  
suits, but with unique accessories purchased from  
struggling artists native to exotic nations, for  
combination of professional flair and personal,  
socially conscious style.

**11:30 p.m.**

Head fuzzy, lights strange. Shazzer birthday hazzome  
strong drinks, pink foamy mmmm, have forgotten  
something but not as important as bed and  
huhgzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

 

_March 29, Weight = 139 (tragic), alcohol units = 5  
(four daiquiris with Shaz, one shot of highly  
suspicious blue substance, poor but understandable as  
unavoidable social necessity of friend's birthday),  
cigarettes = 0 (yes! triumphing over addiction in  
brave style of TV-movie heroine)_

 

**10:15 a.m. **

Hangover obviously makes all work impossible. Desire  
only death, dark, quiet place to vomit, also possibly  
lovely coral Manolo Blahniks in shop down the road.  
Try to project nausea onto Daniel, who actually  
deserves it, both for horrid faddish tie and dropped  
hints about his hols in Majorca with his new  
girlfriend, wretched Posh Spice clone with thighs like  
matchsticks. Own thighs seem to expand at mere  
thought, as if freakishly absorbing cellulite that  
should be hers. Am sort of portrait of Dorian Grey,  
taking in dietary sins of others so that they remain  
young and perfect forever.

Shit, shit, shit, have forgot all about Rambaldi sale!  
Should have sent e-mail last night instead of  
listening to Shaz describe Simon as pretentious  
fuckwit for hours. No messages on the ansaphone. No  
doubt mysterious people have thought better of buying  
stupid book, although upon second look it is sort of  
exotic and intellectual. Perhaps it would look quite  
well on my coffee table, projecting both intelligence  
and sophistication, proclaiming me collector of unique  
manuscripts. Too intimidating? Will take it home and  
see. Put in satchel so as not to forget later, when  
hangover drags into afternoon and all hope appears  
gone.

**3:23 p.m.**

All hope appears gone. Will never drink again. Though  
after work may pop round to Tom's for Bloody Mary  
(restorative, hair of dog, therefore medicinal and not  
recreational, even rich with nutrients if made with  
V-8.) Should call Tom and -- gaahhhhhhh!

 

**5:45 p.m.**

Life has turned into action movie! Long-awaited  
excitement has arrived, is far too confusing to be  
enjoyed, also much like action movie.

Was rubbing head, brooding upon hangover, when armed  
men in black swarmed into office. First thought was  
strange novelty prank, early April Fool's nonsense,  
just like Daniel. Then armed men shot Daniel,  
horrifying ghastly incident which nonetheless was not  
wholly unsatisfying. (Sign of decaying soul? Harbinger  
of voting Tory in future? Will think about later if  
survive.)

"Bridget!" Perpetua whispered, down on her hands and  
kneels, repellent posture making saddlebags all the  
more apparent. "We must get out of here. It's the  
IRA!"

Why IRA striking second-rate publisher beyond me.  
Obviously not politically aware enough, have led  
trivial life, regrets piling up. Slung satchel across  
back (cannot leave Silk Cuts behind, even if have  
given up smoking, due to clear stress-related  
emergency which does not count) and began shimming  
down hall after Perpetua, wishing had not worn  
turquoise sweater (stands out against beige carpet,  
makes self better target.)

Then more armed men in black appeared and began shooting  
at first armed men. Ghastly horrible battle scenario,  
entirely surreal, at first suspected bad interaction  
of drink and prescription drugs. Will never drink  
again.

Was just wondering if could fit self into air vent and  
wishing had worn spandex support garment to facilitate  
escape when gray-haired man in black appeared at side.  
Fortunately was interested in shooting at other men in  
black, not crouching publishers. As tried to edge past  
him, heard extraordinary conversation into cool small  
phone rigged up onto ear in style of Madonna: "They  
won't blow this place! Not as long as they're looking  
for the Rambaldi manuscript. They'll never risk  
destroying it."

Many thoughts then occurred to self:

1) Oh, shit, really should have sent e-mail.  
2) Rambaldi manuscript still in my satchel.  
3) Satchel is slung across my back.   
4) Am obviously in v. great, unprecedented danger.   
5) Dying by armed attack glamorous and exciting, would  
make news, force all previous boyfriends to  
re-evaluate relationships, far superior to long-feared  
solitary demise that remains undiscovered for three  
weeks until neighbours detect foul scent.  
6) Was definitely machine-gun fire I just heard.  
7) Will take chances on solitary demise.

"Ah, pardon?" I said, waving upward from unfortunate  
crouch on floor. "Hellooo? Wahey?"

Gray-haired man in black stared down, as if very  
surprised to be spoken to by mere creeping victim,  
then looked severe again. "Remain still. This building  
is in no danger. Your best move is to stay out of  
harm's way." Had American accent, hmmm.

"Right, yes, exactly, would love that, but see, I  
heard you say Rambaldi. Didn't I?" Would be terrible  
embarrassment if was discussing entirely wrong thing  
amidst crisis. "The Rambaldi manuscript?"

Instantly Man In Black is beside me, very intense,  
kind of scary but also a bit sexy in perverse,  
Stockholm-syndrome way. "You know where it is?"

Nodded. "Right, I --"

Did not get chance to explain as he instantly hauled  
me to my feet, thus defying game plan wherein I was to  
stay out of harm's way. Was somewhat offended by this  
though had no time to object as was being dragged down  
stairwell amid more gunfire. Then Man In Black got  
onto waiting motorbike. "Get on!"

Oooooh, riding on back of motorbike v. sexy, dashing,  
in violation of all London traffic-control rules, take  
that, Mayor of London! Wonderful thing happened where  
rode past cab containing Nigel and Fiona Watley, most  
smug of Smug Marrieds among acquaintance. Had both  
horrid children in cab, obviously shrieking  
at top of lungs and smearing contents of pudding cups  
on car windows, when I went by all glamorous and  
dashing. Waved and gave big smile as went past.

"Are you waving?" Man In Black said over his shoulder.  
"Don't wave!"

"Sorry." Was a bit miffed, really. How am I to know  
escape protocols? Ask self What Would Pussy Galore Do?  
Suspect answer would rarely be relevant to one's own  
life.

Eventually made way to small hotel and was ushered  
unceremoniously into room. Very bare, not at all nice  
bed-and-breakfast, humph. "Stay here," Man In Black  
said, slamming door behind him.

No cable here. Dying to call Shazzer and Jude on  
mobile but suspect is not part of escape protocol  
either. Content self with thinking of shock and envy  
adventure will inspire in retelling. Try to be good.  
Have calming, restorative Silk Cut.

**10:46 p.m.**

_Weight = 130 pounds (est.; no doubt have instantly  
lost weight due to intense calorie-burning effect of  
life or death escape), alcohol units = 0 (though badly  
needed, no minibar in hotel room, v. upsetting),  
cigarettes = 6 (does not count as nerves had to be  
calmed and as mentioned minibar not available),  
concerns that Daniel's death means I am now unemployed  
= 8, concerns that worrying about my employment when  
Daniel is in fact entirely dead means I am wretched  
human being unworthy of love = 7,340. _

Man In Black finally reappeared long after dark, when  
was absolutely starving and wild for drink. He looked  
as though had had equally rough time, no chance for  
minibar either, so felt vaguely sympathetic. Decided  
to put best face on situation, demonstrate true inner  
poise. "I'm Bridget Jones," I said, holding out hand  
politely for a shake.

Man In Black completely nonplussed by normal social  
nicety. "Jack Bristow," he said after longish pause.  
"The Rambaldi manuscript -- where is it? Can you take  
me to it?"

"No need," I said with big smile of pride. Put hand in  
satchel and presented Jack with book.

"This," he said, "is a copy of The South Beach Diet."

"Durr! Sorry!" Attempted to regain poise by getting  
correct book and swapping it for South Beach Diet with  
some flair, which went unnoticed. "They're the same  
size, after all."

Jack not interested in South Beach Diet or size  
thereof. Leafed through Rambaldi manuscript, nodding  
head. "Good. Good. How did you happen to acquire this,  
Miss Jones?"

Humph. Hate it when strangers assume not married,  
particularly as assumption is correct. "Well, it's  
kind of a funny story, actually --"

Told story. Jack did not find funny, just stared with  
impenetrable annoyed expression. When done said only,  
"It sounds as though you encountered the Rambaldi work  
entirely at random. You can go. You should tell as few  
people as you can about this, and by no means mention  
Rambaldi."

Go? Just go? No thank-you parting gift for such  
events, say perhaps book token? Have been awfully  
inconvenienced, with ladder in stocking and no minibar  
and dead Daniel and such. "I must say, the CIA aren't  
at all what I was expecting."

"How did you know we were CIA?" Humph. Jack obviously  
thinks I am total idiot because of entirely  
understandable South Beach Diet mixup.

"Just guessed," I said with a bit of a sulk.

Just then phone rang, and went for my mobile before  
realizing it was in fact Jack's little Madonna phone.  
He rigged it up and said, "Bristow."

"Ah, Agent Bristow. I had hoped I'd be able to reach  
you." Voice had English accent, made Jack look v.  
annoyed, as if would like to punch hole in wall. Waved  
me off as though I should just go. Was about to do so  
when voice continued, "I hope you and Miss Jones are  
having a lovely evening?"

Do not know how Voice learned my name but suspect this  
is Not Good. Look at Jack's face confirmed suspicion.  
Immediately lit next Silk Cut. "How did you get this  
number, Mr. Sark?"

Mr. Sark said, "Your daughter was kind enough to  
supply that for us."

Jack suddenly looked quite pale. Held out Silk Cut to  
him, but he did not seem to notice. "What have you  
done with Sydney?"

"She's unharmed, Agent Bristow – at least, for the  
present. If you would like her back in your hands  
instead of in mine – " (said that last in very nasty  
voice that would have been sexy if not obviously  
spoken by Bad Guy) " – you know what you need to do."

"The Rambaldi manuscript."

"Delivered to me, tomorrow morning. Shall we say  
sunrise at Heathrow? Near the gate for Saudi Arabian  
Airlines?" Mr. Sark did not wait for answer, v. rude.  
"Needless to say, if you mention this to anyone else  
in the CIA, it will not go well for Sydney."

"Do not harm her," Jack said, as if in position to  
give orders, v. manly and decisive, quite unlike all  
men of current acquaintance, esp. Daniel, though now  
as Daniel dead possibly no longer should be counted.

"I shall honor our agreement if you do. Until  
tomorrow, then." Phone clicked off. Awkward pause.

Ventured, "Um – sorry." Immediately felt awkward and  
stupid, not at all empathetic and strong in model of  
Princess Diana as is personal goal.

Jack did not notice stupidity of remark, just held out  
hand. Saw my confusion and said, "The cigarette."   
Handed Silk Cut to him, from which he took deep drag.  
"I haven't had one of these in sixteen years."

"That's nonsense. Of course you have."

Was fixed with hard stare. Immediately highly  
confused. Have always thought that to stop smoking  
would still allow occasional cigs for crises,  
après-sex, nights in bars. Can possibly mean entire,  
total end to tall smoking? Ghastly thought.

As diversion from stare, said, "What do we do now? Are  
they going to come looking for me?"

"They may be at your home," Jack said, totally not  
helpful even if true. What if Mum pop by with Una  
Alconbury for chat and is massacred by evil Ninja-type  
thugs? On other hand, highly unlikely as Mum will just  
tell them all black is slimming and would any of them  
marry me and sprog me up as I am highly desperate?  
Ninja thugs will flee in terror. "But they aren't  
interested in you, only the Rambaldi manuscript. Once  
they have it, they won't pursue you further."

At first offended to be considered such trivial part  
of global espionage crisis that am obviously at very  
center of. Then relieved. Then realised plan. "You're  
giving the manuscript to them, aren't you? To get your  
daughter back?"

"Yes."

"But you can't!"

Was fixed with stare even harder than last stare,  
which thought was impossible. "And why do you say  
that?"

"Well, it's important, isn't it? This book – or, uhmm,  
people wouldn't be shooting each other over it, would  
they, though of course people shoot each other over  
some very stupid things, like Northern Ireland and  
Palestine, not that those are stupid, conflicts of,  
ahh, God and culture -- but the shooting is certainly  
stupid, and it goes on and on, which makes one give up  
all hope in human nature. Though of course we can  
never give up hope in human nature –" Jack glazing  
over. Was losing him, tried to get to point albeit in  
v. small voice. "—well, it just seems as though you  
shouldn't do what the bad guys want."

Strangely, words seemed to have effect on Jack. He sat  
down heavily on one of room's two beds, rubbed  
forehead as if migraine descending. Realized all at  
once that Jack is really rather handsome despite grey  
hair, in quiet, intense manner of Anthony Hopkins or  
similar. "If they're holding my daughter captive, I  
don't have any choice."

Could not argue. Confronted with weighty situation  
entirely beyond normal scope, more in style of film  
than real life, and so fell back upon standard means  
of dealing with parents: "Do you have a picture?"

Had a picture. Apparently decreed by international law  
that all parents will carry around snaps to show at  
slightest provocation. Felt some surprise that Sydney  
is not cherubic young moppet with curls but woman my  
own age, only slim and gorgeous and model-like.  
Obviously would be despicable if not in awful trouble  
and did not have dad who saved my life.

"She's lovely."

Jack nodded, v. miserable. "You'll see yourself, in  
the morning, when we get her back. And we will."

One problem word in this scenario. "We?"

"You can't go home. You'll be in danger if you do. I  
can't take you into CIA protective custody without  
tipping off the agency's suspicions about the upcoming  
trade. That means we're staying here." Jack  
immediately stripped off shoes, socks and jacket.  
Despite strictly utilitarian nature of move, felt  
vaguely aroused. Obviously has been too long since was  
near man taking off his clothes. (8 mo., 5 days,  
unless count time dropped by Tom's and caught him in  
shower with latest boyfriend, clearly not same thing  
at all.) "It's been a long day, Miss Jones. I suggest  
we get some sleep."

Took other bed. Jack already asleep as if not a  
trouble in the world, as if no young Singleton  
spending night in hotel room with him. Humph.

_March 30, weight = 130 pounds (have probably not lost  
more weight in past three hours, though have hopes for  
later), alcohol units = 0, alcohol units consumed in  
imagination = 19, cigarettes = 7, attempts to sleep =  
2, times turned light back on and earned scowl from  
newly-awakened Jack = 2_

**1:53 a.m. **

Cannot rest. Do not know if is excitement of  
near-death experience or extreme awareness of Jack  
nearby. V. strange to be in hotel room with stranger  
and not shagging, (Not that have spent much time  
shagging strangers in hotel rooms, at least not  
enough.)

Hmm. Shagging much on mind. Proximity of attractive  
male person, renewed sense of life and fragility  
because of near-death experience, and presence of  
California King beds all combining to create strange  
lusts.

Perhaps not so strange. What Would Pussy Galore Do?  
Would shag like mad, that's what.

Of course, Pussy Galore would also be wearing gold  
bikini and have her hair ratted into stiff yet  
attractive style and would have no back fat and would  
have had time amid adventures to reapply eyeliner. But  
cannot have everything.

Jack v. soundly asleep. But men do not mind being  
woken up for a good shag. At least, not most men, but  
perhaps secret agents different, more serious? And  
what if that means not casual fling, in style of James  
Bond, which after all is only movie and not real life?  
What if Jack sees me as young, innocent woman, refuge  
from spy life troubles and woes, oasis in lonely  
desert of life?

No, will not imagine lasting relationship with man  
hardly know. Is unproductive, fabulist, silly and  
unfeminist. Also, self-help books all say that surest  
way to scare men off from lasting relationships is to  
want lasting relationship, and must find way to hide  
desire even from self. Thus lasting relationship is  
pleasant surprise to all when rediscovered after  
no-strings, mutually supportive dating. So will not  
pursue thought further. Will rest. Will sleep.

**1:59 a.m.**

Ooooh. He moved. What if got in bed beside him just  
for snuggle?

**2:01 a.m.**

Would Jack want to wear black Kevlar at wedding  
ceremony? Sydney surely too old to be flower girl, but  
Jude and Shazzer would not be happy to share  
bridesmaid's duties with thin gorgeous despicable  
supermodel object.

**2:03 a.m.**

Bridget Jones-Bristow has nice ring to it.

**2:08 a.m.**

All right, must stop obsessing, must consider more  
carefully.

_PROS:_

1) At least one night of sex, could restart calendar  
of "days without sex" back at zero, rather than  
current horrifying triple-digit number.

2) Jack saved life, therefore created intimate bond  
without words, even if do not exactly know what bond  
is yet, or sense it, because must be there.

3) Handsome man even if mature, therefore would prove  
non-materialistic nature of self, ability to value  
more than shallow qualities.

4) Examination reveals that Jack wears size 13 1/2  
shoes, v. promising indeed.

5) Potential for relationship with secret agent,  
glamorous, exotic, would stop all snide Smug Married  
comments at cocktail parties dead.

_CONS:_

1) If married Jack, would not become young mother  
laughing fulfilledly with child dressed all in Baby  
Gap while romping in park, but would instantly be  
wicked stepmother to woman own age only gorgeous and  
thin.

2) Could therefore soon become grandmother before  
becoming mother, horrid, repellent thought.

3) Have not showered since gunfire incident at office,  
during which sweated a fair bit, possibly off-putting,  
cannot wash now without giving game away.

4) Jack not wearing wedding ring, so single, but  
Sydney's mother probably still alive, would hate and  
resent me and yet never leave our lives b/c of Sydney,  
like ex-girlfriend from hell times 10.

5) Would have to move to America, which on second  
thought might be v. exciting and certainly could not  
be worse than dreary Singleton flat in London, so  
should move to PRO column.

Six PROS, four CONS, which means that – Gahhhhh!

**2:14 a.m.**

Was Jack. He said, "Miss Jones, I can tell when  
someone is staring at me. I can't sleep when someone  
is staring at me. Given that our survival tomorrow,  
not to mention my daughter's, depends on my being able  
to focus – I should get some sleep. That means you  
should too." Lights are now off. Humph.

**6:53 a.m. **

Got to Heathrow just before sunrise. Was feeling v.  
nasty due to lack of shower, certain hair looked  
horrid. Jack did not seem to notice. I carried  
satchel.

"Don't say anything," Jack kept insisting. "Don't do  
anything unless and until I tell you."

"Right, right, got it." Considered this for a second.  
"Can I have a Silk Cut?"

Deep sigh. "You can do that. Don't ask me that again."

Some people are very imprecise about their  
instructions. Then again, probably Jack was tense re:  
daughter. Should be more mindful of unfolding family  
tragedy, stop harboring resentful and/or lustful  
thoughts, as sign of respect.

Arrived at Saudi Arabian Airlines gate. Few  
tired-looking women in burqas hanging about, nobody  
else. "Good idea, isn't it? Flying Saudi Arabian Air?"

Jack gave strange look. "Why?"

"Well, Arab terrorists aren't going to bomb an Arab  
airliner, are they? Really, I ought to fly Saudi  
Arabian Air everywhere."

"If you want to spend your vacations in Riyadh, be my guest."  
Jack went all tense and started to stare, and so I  
looked in that direction. Coming toward us were Sydney  
(still gorgeous with hair in place despite having  
spent night as hostage – how do women accomplish this?  
What is secret?) and young blond man that was no doubt  
Mr. Sark. Really quite shaggable despite evilness.

"Hi, Dad," Sydney said with little smile. "I'm sorry  
about this."

"It's okay, sweetheart," Jack said, which was  
endearing. "Mr. Sark, the trade is ready. Let's do  
this."

"Certainly," Mr. Sark said, quite pleased with  
himself, v. smug, not unlike Daniel Cleaver now that  
think of it. "Miss Jones, I presume?" Did not say  
anything as per Jack instructions, but gave slight nod  
which seemed only polite. "A pleasure to make your  
acquaintance."

"How are we doing this?" Jack insisted.

"Your Miss Jones will throw the Rambaldi volume to me.  
As I inspect it, Sydney will be allowed to walk toward  
you. If the volume is as it should be, we will turn  
our backs to each other and stroll away. I see no  
reason it should not be that simple."

Jack nodded. "Bridget, go ahead."

Ooooh, "Bridget." Now on first-name basis! KNEW secret  
intimate bond had been created!

Jack stared. Realized was getting lost in thoughts at  
inopportune time. "Got it. Right." Began fishing in  
satchel for volume –

\--when Sydney elbowed Mr. Sark in the ribs in sudden,  
superhero-like manner. What followed all v. confusing,  
with Sydney and Mr. Sark fighting, and Jack pulling  
out a gun, and screaming from the airline people.  
(Will no doubt be considered terrorist for rest of  
life, will never be able to board again and will have  
to take all hols by rail.)

Mr. Sark seemed to get better of situation, had gun  
pointed at Sydney. Horrifying, dreadful. Jack looked  
v. pale. "I warned you!" Mr. Sark shouted, and at that  
moment did not look sexy at all.

"I've got it!" I shouted. Held up my satchel and  
simply threw it toward him. Mr. Sark caught it as  
Sydney dove toward her father. Situation appeared  
defused as Mr. Sark took off, hopefully not to be seen  
again unless he has had much therapy but is still  
cute. Jack somehow got us from airport without being  
arrested for terrorists, though no doubt Interpol is  
looking suspiciously at surveillance footage even now,  
in which probably look fat.

When outside airport, Sydney gave Jack quick hug, then  
shook my hand. "Are you guys okay?" she said. Actually  
sounded like nice person despite being a stunner.

"Don't worry about us," Jack said, which was either  
endearing b/c used "us" without prompting or annoying  
as did not actually ask how I was and therefore was  
assuming. "Everything's fine."

Sydney rolled eyes. "Except that Mr. Sark has the  
Rambaldi manuscript."

Knew my cue. Reached in waistband of skirt (extra room  
due to lost weight from near-death experience) and  
pulled out Rambaldi book. "You mean, this manuscript?"

Reaction all could have hoped for. Secret agents agog,  
staring. "You made a switch," Sydney said. "How did  
you do it?"

"I had another book the same size," I explained.  
"Tossed that to him instead."

Jack said, "In other words, Mr. Sark is now becoming  
acquainted with his new copy of –"

We said the next together – "The South Beach Diet."

Sydney started to laugh. I said, "Good thing, too. Now  
he'll know his good carbs from his bad carbs."

At this point, would swear Jack smiled. Just for a  
second, but am sure saw it.

Hailed cab. Decided Sydney would remain with me, make  
sure my flat safe, while Jack turns in Rambaldi  
manuscript to CIA. Have saved mysterious book and am  
therefore hero! Hurrah!

**11:39 a.m.**

Having absolutely splendid morning. Flat was perfectly  
safe, and when apologized for undergarments and old  
issues of Guardian left on floor, Sydney insisted her  
place even worse. Probably this is tactful lie, but  
was soothing anyway. Went to take long shower, and  
when emerged Sydney had cued up "Pride and Prejudice"  
on video.

"It's been a long couple of days," she said. "And I  
just love this movie, and I was wondering if it would  
be okay, if, well – could we just watch the part where  
Mr. Darcy dives into the water?"

Would never have imagined that thin gorgeous  
supermodel-type person was in fact sister under the  
skin. Made microwaved waffles and repeatedly watched  
sexy Mr. Darcy scenes with Sydney while we ate.  
Therefore instantly formed bond and went on to discuss  
lives, dating, etc. Sydney, as it turns out, was  
seeing a man named Vaughn (possibly code name, as all  
is secret agenty) when he up and married someone else,  
icy blonde cow named Lauren. Had pleasant hours  
thinking up new insults for Lauren, rewinding  
videotape, pouring more syrup onto waffles. (Sydney  
totally unconcerned re: calories, must burn many in  
line of work. Worth being secret agent just for weight  
loss? Must inquire.) Vaughn married man but still  
mooning around after her and cruelly, unfairly  
reawakening feelings of love.

"It's fuckwittage!" I shouted. "Pure emotional  
fuckwittage!"

"Fuckwittage!" Sydney agreed, holding bit of waffle  
aloft on fork in sort of toast. "Ohh, wait – can we  
just rewind that part? Where Darcy's wet shirt is sticking  
to his body?"

Just goes to show that thin thighs and perfect hair  
not proof of despicable personality, nor defense  
against incredible fuckwit nature of men.

**3:03 p.m.**

Jack popped round to flat to retrieve Sydney, report  
that all was well. Sydney wanted to take her own  
shower before going back, so waved her off, hoping she  
would not notice shameful ring in tub or use up last  
of Yardley's body wash.

This left Jack and self alone in flat. Thought of  
suggesting "Pride &amp; Prejudice" video, decided against.

"I appreciate your help," he said. "You thought fast  
this morning. I hadn't expected that."

Decided to ignore potentially insulting ramifications  
of last remark. "You saved my life," I said, sounding  
quite like fawning creature and not minding at all. "I  
should be thanking you." In this context, "thanking"  
very much meant "shagging wildly, hoping Sydney cannot  
hear above sound of water in shower."

Jack may have understood context (why not? Secret  
agent, attuned to subtlety, also cannot discount  
nature of secret bond between us), because then looked  
v. troubled, though not in bad way. Wondered if  
perhaps this was a good time to make move –

Then realized was in tragic love that Could Never Be.

"I know what you're thinking," I blurted out. "I'm  
thinking it too. This bond between us – it's  
undeniable, and it will last our whole lives long –"

"Bridget –"

"But sometimes that bond alone is not enough, and you  
have your life, and it's a very different sort of life  
than mine, and so no matter how much we may want each  
other –"

"Bridget –"

"It can never happen." Squared shoulders, tried to be  
brave. "I would if I could. I know you would too. But  
no matter how much we may long for each other, we must  
be strong. We must. Before we are caught up in a  
passion we cannot control. We shall conquer this  
together." Sounded quite marvelous, really, much like  
dignified noble lady of manse on "Upstairs Downstairs"  
giving up passion for duty.

Jack stared at me for long time, mouth slightly open.  
Then, at last, he said, "That's – exactly right."

"Yes."

"Good."

"All right, then." Felt a bit miffed at not having at  
least gotten a kiss in my Great Adventurous Romance,  
but then, perhaps is better, sexier, more unique to  
have understated longing in manner of Merchant Ivory  
movie.

Sydney emerged from shower still looking perfect  
through miraculous, unimaginable process. She gave a  
quick hug before leaving. Jack only shook hand,  
obviously determined to Be Strong, though fancy his  
hand did linger on mine a bit longer than necessary.  
"Goodbye, Jack," I said meaningfully, looking into his  
eyes.

A-hah! Saw smile again! "Goodbye, Bridget. And good  
luck."

Then they were gone.

Felt momentary sense of loss at ending of one great  
adventure, also terrible realization that, as Daniel  
still dead, probably unemployed. Will have to take  
c.v. to be updated. Where was that computer disk  
again? -- Phone!

**3:25 p.m.**

Was Shazzer, in a state. "My GOD, Bridget, where have  
you been? We saw the news yesterday and nearly DIED.  
What happened?"

Smiled as tucked phone into curve of shoulder. "You  
won't believe it," I said. "You simply won't believe  
it."

Shazzer did not believe it, not in good, shocked,  
gratifying way but in disappointing, actual disbelief  
way. Says I am still suffering post-traumatic stress  
disorder hallucinations.

But will always have proof, both of adventure and of  
great, passionate, near-affair with Jack Bristow, the  
spy who loved me -- as long as have diary.

Hmm -- what is this?

Little foldy map, all on old parchment. Is not Tube map  
as first believed, but instead document all about   
something called "The Telling." Huh.

Oh, yes, remember now. Pulled from Rambaldi   
manuscript to use as place marker.

Realize -- this means I will be seeing Jack again  
soon! Hurrah!

**

THE END


End file.
